Butterscotch shadows flickered on the ceiling.
The katydid's relentless cadence creaked and groaned in the darkness like an old rocking chair.
"Can you hear them?" She asked.
"I cannot." I whispered.
Gazing now, I asked.
"If the moon sang, what would be the song?"
"Depends on the phase." She said.
"Full"
"It would be a jolly song." She replied.
"A jolly song indeed." I agreed.
The drive home revealed a butterscotch moon. Canted westward.
Waxing gibbous.
Three quarters jolly on the night's last refrain.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
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Amy pointed us in your direction, Rocky and I am so glad she did. You are a rare treasure. I love what I have read so far and look forward to being a regular visitor.
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